A Little Chimney Sweep
For Duncan Wyllie
Who suggest I write this in a comment he once made.
Back in the 1800’s
in a large city in England
there lived a seven year old
and I will call him Tarn.
His hair was matted with soot,
his face and hands were black.
His clothes were old and cast offs
and didn’t fit too well.
His trousers had holes in the knees
and the elbows of his shirt were gone.
His skin was black from head to foot
from climbing chimneys
each and everyday.
He could work sometimes sixteen hours
before he finished for the day.
He never got educated,
nor did he play with friends.
He had no childhood
for as soon as he was old enough
to walk and climb out to work he had to go
to earn money to be fed.
There were no luxuries that we enjoy today.
Everyday you worked from dawn to dusk.
He didn’t smile or laugh,
just scampered up and down chimneys
to clean the soot away.
On one fateful day he found himself
wedged and couldn’t move.
No one heard his cries,
or if they did, they just ignored them.
Day after day, he struggled to get free
and all the time getting weaker and weaker.
He was soon forgotten about
and slowly his life expired.
He must have died in agony
more than most of us will ever know.
His body lay there for over a hundred years
before it was discovered by accident
when they renovated the old house.
poem by David Harris
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
